Of Friends and Firewhiskey
by Snorcackle
Summary: While George is getting over the loss of his twin, he runs into an old friend. Rated T for a dangerously drunk George.
1. Firewhiskey

**AN:** I really ought to be sleeping instead of posting this, but, oh well. I haven't decided if I'm going to add more to this; if, by some chance, I do, chapters will be few and far between and will very likely become quite shippy, keeping with canon. I don't own these characters, but, if I did, the circumstances leading to this would probably never have happened and thus this ship would be sunk. Also, did I seriously write a humor/hurt/comfort? It's definitely hurt/comfort, and I just feel like George would be a funny drunk, even in grief. That's just his personality. I dunno. Categories may change.

* * *

George mulled over the firewhiskey in front of him. He'd never much cared for the drink, to be honest. It had really been more Fred's drink of choice, and George would simply follow suit, but he needed something strong right now, and nothing quite compared in strength to firewhiskey. Honestly, it had been a long year, made even longer by the past few weeks. It had started out with Dumbldore's death, then losing his ear, then moved to being constantly on the run, then quite suddenly took a turn for the morbid when his twin brother died. George gladly told this story to anyone willing to listen –not, of course, that very many people wanted to hear about his troubles. He really wasn't the only who'd had a long year. Still, he shouted his story to strangers in the pub, all of whom would one by one slowly nod and make their way to the other end of the room.

Some three firewhiskeys later –was it three, or five? He'd lost count- he could no longer keep track of the details of his story. Had he lost his ear _before_ he'd had to turn into Harry? Or had that been _why_ he'd lost his ear? How many people had died again? Lupin, Tonks, Mad-Eye, _hic!_, Snape, Harry… No, wait, Harry was still very much alive. George smiled to himself. _Hic!_ He'd really never been one for firewhiskey, he explained to those unfortunate enough to be stuck near him, but, after the numbing effects started to take over, he could barely even taste the habanera powder anymore.

Another firewhiskey, and he was barely even able to stand. Instead, he gladly twirled around on the barstool. Why was he drinking again? Oh, yes. Fred. His sudden decision to sing excerpts from Rigoletto, however, had become infinitely more important. _Hic!_ La dot dot _daa_dadum... He didn't speak Italian, or he would have gladly sung the actual words for the whole pub to hear. He thought he might have heard the bartender telling him to stuff it, but that was of little importance. At times like these, Verdi was _always_ more important.

If George's vision were clear, he would have been able to tell that the bartender was about two seconds from giving George a good whack to the back of the head. Fortunately, no such disciplinary action was required, as someone had quite suddenly grabbed him by the sleeve and commenced to drag him out of the pub. He couldn't quite make out the figure, other than that he thought it _might_ be female, with dark skin and long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. If he couldn't figure out his mystery dragger before, however, there was soon to be no mistaking her. A good slap to the back of the head and a loud, "Oi! What was that about?" and George was set perfectly straight, relatively speaking.

It may have been about a year since he'd last seen her, but there was no mistaking Angelina Johnson.

Angelina was always a special sort of person. She'd never been too serious, unlike Alicia or Hermione, but she could still shout with the best of them. Evidently, she'd kept that trait, since her voice was now sending a shooting pain through his head. "Five minutes. I'm in there for five minutes and all I can hear is you singing and you're so out of tune I can't even tell what the song is. I reckon you've drunk enough for the both of us plus the barman."

George thought she might be glaring. More importantly, though, he thought she might be taller than he was. He promptly swiped his hand over the top of his head to see where it landed in relation to her, hitting her squarely in the forehead. This was met with a slap on the arm by Angelina, who was not amused.

"I was there at the battle, too, George. I know who died. I know Fred was on the list." Her voice softened as she reminded George of that painful day. "But, for Merlin's sake, pull yourself together! Would Fred go out and drink himself into a stupor? Wait, no, don't answer that," she added as she realized the error of those words. Fred and George were practically one and the same in many ways. Of course they'd have the same reaction to grief like this as well. Tears began to well up in George's eyes as Angelina backpedalled. "I don't blame you for being upset, it's just…" She took a deep breath. "It's just that you've gone and made a bloody idiot of yourself for the whole world to see. Not that you weren't a bloody idiot anyways, but now all of Diagon Alley knows it."

Perhaps George might have been insulted, had he not been preoccupied with the residual flavor of the firewhiskey coming to life again. He guessed the effects were beginning to wear off, and he'd have to deal with the world again. _Great_.

He winced as Angelina grabbed his sleeve again, dragging him behind her. He meant to ask her a question, a simple, 'And where are we off to now?' but it seemed that was an impossible task. Instead, he asked, "Wherwegongow?"

"Your flat."

Thank goodness Weasley's Wizard Wheezes (the sign for which hadn't been lit up since before the Battle of Hogwarts) wasn't too far from the little pub. At the very least it meant that Angelina would spend less time tugging on his sleeve. Evidently, he'd voiced his complaints about this without realizing this, as Angelina quickly replied, "You're lucky it's just your sleeve. I have half a mind to grab your one good ear."

As the two stumbled into the lower level of the shop, Angelina flipped her wand to illuminate the room, much to George's chagrin. "Oi! Watch the eyes!" Speaking of which, his eyes were beginning to water immensely. He'd never been one for tears, not even when he'd lost his ear, but that didn't stop him now. He shuddered to think of what Fred would say if he saw this.

Oh, God. _Fred_.

Before he knew it, he was bawling out all of what he'd just been yelling in the bar, only this time the person he was talking to wasn't leaving. "It's like _I_ died out there, y'know?" he managed to choke out between sobs. "I mean, obviously, I _didn't_, but Fred's gone now, so I've just been this empty shell walking around for the past couple of weeks. Dammit, Ange, what am I s'posed to do?" His words just sort of ran together in sloppy sentences. "We were the same _person_-"

Angelina stopped him suddenly by putting a finger to his lips. "Actually, you weren't."

What? Of course he was, he wanted to say. Unfortunately, the sentence sounded considerably more like, "Coriwah."

"No, you weren't." Angelina shook her head, or so he thought. His eyes hadn't really adjusted yet. "You two were really similar, I'll give you that, but I don't think you ever tried to find out what made you different because he was just too overpowering. He could be a right git, you know that, and you could too, don't get me wrong, but you weren't half as bad." The words riled the heart of the already emotional George, who would gladly have heard anything else. "And, believe me, I liked Fred, but he could be a bloody nightmare to deal with. You might not have protested, but you weren't the one who thought of all that. I reckon you didn't let yourself be another person 'cos you thought people would like Fred more."

George may have felt more anger if sleep deprivation weren't beginning to take hold of him. Instead, he let out a sleepy, "Well, leastways he's dead, innit he? Wouldn't do to be so disrespectful."

"I'm not being disrespectful. I'm just telling you the truth." Angelina smiled as she dragged George up the stairs. "'Sides, you know what the first thing I thought when I heard he died was?"

"What?" George was only half-listening at this point, as his bed was right in sight.

As she laid George down, Angelina laughed. "When I heard he was on the list of casualties, the very first thing that went through my mind was, least it wasn't George." With that, she leaned over and kissed the now-asleep George on the forehead.


	2. The Next Morning

**AN:** I think I _will_ be continuing this story. Just a heads up, this chapter gets a bit sappy towards the end. Still don't own these characters.

* * *

When George woke up the next morning, his head was pounding in a particularly unpleasant manner. He couldn't honestly say he remembered why, although he imagined it had something to do with alcohol. Damn. He'd always been told he was an amusing drunk, but he'd yet to spend a memorable enough evening that didn't leave his head in sorry state the next morning. The light shining through his window was blazingly painful, and the whistling from the stove in the other room was pinging hollowly through his head.

Wait, how was there a whistling on the stove exactly?

Rubbing his temples, he stepped into the kitchen. Blasted light was blazing away in here, too. There seemed to be a pan of bacon sizzling away on the stove. The kettle next to it was whistling far too happily for George's liking, and a certain Angelina Johnson was walking over to pour some water for her tea. Now, how had she gotten here?

When she saw him, Angelina waved him over to a chair at the small table. He walked over tentatively, his head still pounding from the glaring light in his eyes. As he sat, she brought over generous helping of the bacon. "Eat. You've got a hangover. I imagine it's rather nasty, seeing how much firewhiskey you had last night." She gave a sorry smile as she returned to the stove to get her tea.

George shielded his face as he ate the plateful of greasy, crispy bacon in front of him. He was not easily embarrassed, and his bizarre behavior often mimicked that, but he had a sneaky feeling that his behavior the night before was particularly outlandish to an extent that even he would have to ridicule. Well, he thought as he shoved a slice in his mouth, at least he'd be able to laugh at himself. That was always a good trait, right?

As Angelina took the seat next to him, the look on her face grew concerned. "George, how long was it since you last opened the shop? When we got here last night, I nearly choked on the dust downstairs."

Oh, no. The dreaded question. George had to clear his throat before responding –Merlin, even the sound of _clearing his throat_ gave him a headache! "A year." When he saw the look of shock on her face, he had to reassure her. "I've been on the run, Ange. Trying to keep on the move so that the Death Eaters wouldn't find me, you know? Me and Fred…"

He couldn't help trailing off. How many weeks had it been, and he was still choking on the name? Yeah, it was his twin, but he was George Weasley, and George Weasley didn't cry. Not now, not ever. Certainly not last night. Did he cry last night? Damn, he wished he could remember.

George didn't even realize he'd hunched over and buried his face in his hands until Angelina was rubbing the top of his back in a comforting sort of way. He slowly moved the wipe away the tears that were dripping down his cheeks –blech! Tears! He shook his head and took a deep breath to regain composure. "Any rate, me and Fred were running a little radio show for the Order. We had to keep on the move, on account of we were saying all sorts of things about Voldemort." He could see Angelina cringe just a little bit at the name, but she didn't stop him. "We couldn't keep the shop open. It wasn't safe for anyone."

Angelina simply nodded in understanding. From the look on her face, George could tell she was cooking up a plan. Oh, brilliant! He did rather love plans.

When she finally did speak, she was quiet at first, which was a welcome relief to his still-pounding headache. "Look, I've got practice for the Wasps starting again in a month, but you can do an awful lot in that amount of time. I'll help you get back on your feet, clean up the shop and whatnot. You've got to get your life back together, George, and this is the place to start." With a nod, she stood up from the table, now-empty mug and plate in tow, and gestured for George to get up to follow her.

* * *

George had always admired the fact that Angelina was quick to take control of a situation. Now was no exception.

"We'll start with the entrance. It's got to be maintained well if you want this shop to be open soon. People'll walk by and think, 'Well, isn't that nice?' instead of, 'Oh, gross.' Besides which, it's probably a good idea to be able to walk into your flat without choking on the dust surrounding you." She strode through the shop, batting dust specks from in front of her eyes as she went. "Grab a mop. We'll start now."

George reluctantly followed her across the room. He'd had to mop before; that wasn't a problem. He'd never had some feeling of superiority. Today just seemed like a particularly poor day to be cleaning. If he didn't already know, he'd be wondering-

"What ever happened to that shop girl of yours?" Angelina asked exactly what George was thinking himself. Unlike George, however, Angelina showed genuine concern and confusion. "Veronica or whatever her name was?"

"Verity," said George as he shoved his mop in the bucket on the floor in front of him, which yielded a delightful _squish_. "She's been hiding out since they started interviewing the Muggle-borns, since, well, she _is_ one. Figured it'd be safer for her to be in another country, and, while she was at it, another continent didn't sound half-bad. So, for the time being, she's in Peru. Leastways, I hope she still is. Haven't heard her name crop up recently."

He and Angelina continued mopping in a sort of dignified silence for the rest of the morning. How funny, George thought, that he'd hardly seen sight nor sound of her since Bill and Fleur's wedding, and yet they could sit in silence without any feelings of awkwardness or embarrassment. He could hardly sit in _any_ sort of silence for long, really, and fortunately hadn't had to in years until these past few weeks, but this was welcome. Just this once, he was thankful for the lack of a ruckus surrounding him.

By the time the sun had sunk to a comfortable spot in the west, George and Angelina had managed to clean the grime out of the cracks of the floorboards. The shelves were still caked with dust, unfortunately, and it was nearly impossible to see out the front windows save for a spot Angelina had scrubbed out to let in some sunlight that morning. A very exhausted George collapsed into an old chair, which in turn let out a cloud of dust around him. It might not have been his chosen mode of humor, but managed to elicit a string of laughter from Angelina.

It seemed like he hadn't heard her laugh in _ages_. Probably because he hadn't really _seen_ her in ages. But, Merlin, her laugh sounded nice right now.

Finally it came time for cleaning to cease for the day, and Angelina left for her own home through George's fireplace. As the green flames whisked her away, George left the room to find a more pleasant night's sleep, this time with dreams filled with the welcome sound of Angelina's laughter, which he hoped to hear again very soon.


End file.
